Cancer took Ryne Sandberg from us yesterday, and if it's a cliche to say the world is a poorer place this morning because of that, I'm going to say it anyway. Because the world is a poorer place because of it.
Every Cubs fan I knew wanted to be Ryne Sandberg in his salad days, see, or at least that's how I remember it. He could hit, he could field, and he was the very soul of a franchise that went to the playoffs twice in the 1980s after they'd been, well, the Cubs pretty much since the end of World War II.
Which is to say, losers. Lovable sometimes, and merely losers at others. But consistent about it.
And then came Ryne Sandberg, sort of. Allow me to explain.
Begin with the fact that, in the 1982 trade with the Phillies that turned the Bear Cubs around, Sandberg was not the headline name. He was just a struggling kid in the Phillies' organization then, having gone 1-for-6 in his 13-game debut with the big club in '81. You couldn't quite call him a throw-in on the deal, but he wasn't Larry Bowa or Bobby Dernier or even Keith Moreland, the names in the trade everyone knew.
Sandberg?
Well, the '82 season would be his first full summer in the bigs. And he'd spend it in Wrigley Field, a circumstance that might or might not have been thick with portent. Because where do you suppose he got that one hit during his cup of coffee with the Phils in '81?
Thaaat's right, boys and girls. The Friendly Confines.
Anyway, here he came along with Bowa and Dernier and the rest, working hard to learn his craft. And before long, Ryne Sandberg became, well, Ryne Sandberg.
He broke out for good in 1984, when he batted .314 with 19 home runs, 19 triples and 32 stolen bases and was the National League MVP. Hit two late jacks that summer to win what forever after would be known as The Sandberg Game. Led the Cubs to the playoffs for the first time since Andy Pafko was patrolling center field.
They blew a 3-1 lead and lost to the Padres, of course -- hello, Leon "Wickets" Durham -- but they were no longer losers. In '89 they reached the playoffs again, as Sandberg batted .290 with 30 homers, 76 RBI and 301 total bases. By then, of course, he was no longer Ryne Sandberg but Ryno, and Mr. Cub to the Wrigley faithful in a way no one had been since the OG Mr. Cub, Ernie Banks.
Not that Ryno would have ever cottoned to such sacrilege.
What set him apart, always, was not just that he was good at everything on a ballfield, but that he was good at life, too. He was a family man who played the game with visible joy, and he was reflexively humble about it all. That he was also a notorious clubhouse prankster no one ever got mad at because of his incorrigible good humor and that damned smile of his was a testament to (for lack of a better term) his innate goodness.
He was a Most Valuable Player, and also a Most Valuable Human. Which is why, yes, every Cubs fan wanted to be him, and why no opponent ever had a bad word to say about him anyone remembers.
In his later years he'd become a manager and a coach and mentor to the kids coming up, and none of them had anything bad to say about him, either, because he never talked down to them and always knew how to massage the flaws in their game.
Several of them said just that in Jesse Rogers' ESPN piece on Sandberg today. A pile of Ryno's contemporaries chimed in, too -- including Bowa, who remembered the way the young Sandberg used to come in early that first summer in Chicago to hit and hit and hit under the watchful eye of Cubs manager Jim Frey.
"I think about how handled himself when he first got called up," Bowa said. "He struggled out of the gate. I watched this guy not let it affect him. It might have affected him on the inside, but the way he handled himself on the outside was great."
Reading that takes me back my own Ryne Sandberg moment, which is actually not a Ryne Sandberg moment at all. It was actually a moment involving the man being quoted, Bowa, in the first days of those new-look Cubs of '82.
They opened that season in Cincinnati, where the Reds still traditionally kicked off Opening Day for all of major-league baseball. That was a big deal in those days, and so our paper -- the late, great Anderson (In.) Daily Bulletin -- always covered it.
So there I was, venturing into the visitors clubhouse because, let's face it, the new-look Cubs were the story that day. I wormed my way into the scrum surrounding Bowa, and asked him if, in addition to his obvious skills, if perhaps the Cubs traded for him because of his leadership abilities, too.
Larry didn't like that.
"What do you mean?" he snapped. "They got me because I can play! I can play!"
Young guy that I was, I thought it was a terrible thing, getting yelled at by Larry Bowa. Later, of course, I found out Bowa yelled at a lot of people in those days, and I felt somewhat better about it.
Know what I don't feel better about, on this day when all of baseball mourns an MVH?
That somewhere in that clubhouse was Ryne Sandberg, before he was Ryne Sandberg. And that, because he wasn't yet Ryne Sandberg, I never thought to seek him out for a comment. I might not have even known his name.
Sure do now, though. Sure do now.